


Inevitably Interrupted Sleep

by Sherlaufeyson



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 01:06:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6032547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlaufeyson/pseuds/Sherlaufeyson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a tour bus, nearing the end of the tour, Brian wants to sleep. Roger has other ideas. c.1975</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inevitably Interrupted Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this many years ago on Livejournal under a pseudonym, just in case anyone recognises it.

Having seen to the safe transportation of his beloved Red Special, a thoroughly exhausted Brian May shuffled onto the tour bus, slowly heading to the back for some much needed leg room and sleeping space.

No sooner had he settled back with his legs stretched across the row of cushioned seats, than a familiar head popped over the back of the seat in front.

Brian kept his eyes mostly closed, hoping that if it appeared he was sleeping, Roger might, just might deign to leave him in peace for at least half an hour before the irrepressible urge to begin a sing-song or inane drinking game overtook the younger man.

The head disappeared and Brian gave a sigh of relief, fully closing his eyes, hoping his surrender to sleep would come soon. 

“Pfft. Pfft. Pfft.” 

Brian waved a hand in front of his face as flies seemed to be flying into it. One surprisingly big fly hit him with a bit more force and he opened one eye – to see Roger, straw in one hand and collection of handmade spit balls in the other, grinning down at him.

“Oh goody, you’re awake, Bribri!” Roger’s genuine delight at having roused the tired guitarist did nothing to appease his mood.

“No thanks to you -“ 

Roger placed the straw back in his mouth and shot one at Brian’s face, hitting him in the eye.

“Will. You. Please. STOP THAT!” Brian growled, his voice escalating in volume. Roger’s face descended into a pout before brightening up as his eyes filled with mischief.

“What? What are you thinking Roger?” Brian asked warily.

“Hold out your hand and close your eyes.” Roger asked with that same twinkle in his eyes that Brian feared and yet always seemed to fall prey to.

Not this time.

“No, Rog. I’m sleeping.”

“Please?” Roger’s eyes widened slightly, losing the evil crinkles, “I promise if you don’t like the idea we don’t have to do it.”

“...Alright,” Brian acquiesced.

Roger’s face lit up as Brian closed his eyes, presenting his open hand, face up. When Roger placed several dozen tiny, moist balls of paper in his hand, Brian opened his eyes. His face screwed up in disgust but before he could throw them back at his infantile drummer, Roger grabbed his outstretched hand, closing the fingers on his palm.

“No, wait Bri! Hear me out.”

Brian looked sceptically at Roger, “Hear what out? What marvellous plan do you intend to carry out using spit balls?”

“Revenge,” was Roger’s succinct, yet completely unhelpful answer.

Brian denied Roger the pleasure of being invited to elaborate, so Roger took the initiative. “Well, you know how Johnnie always throws peanuts at you on stage?”

Brian’s face began to form a scowl, which darkened as Roger seemed incapable of masking the grin appearing on his own expression, “...Yes, what of it?”

“We can throw spit balls at him!” Roger answered excitedly.

“When? He doesn’t have a very long triangle solo. And I happen to be playing during it –“

“Not on stage, you dummy!” Roger answered him. “Right now! He’s sleeping you see, and –“

“Roger,” Brian interrupted him. “ _I_ want to be sleeping right now.”

Roger looked crestfallen. “But – but I thought you’d want to get back at him? I wanted to get back at him for you.”

Brian’s lips began to curl upwards into a wry smile, “You wanted to come to my rescue, is that it?”

Roger broke eye-contact for a moment, looking down at the pattern on the back of the chair, “Well – no, but I just thought,” he raised his head to peer down at Brian, “– look, stop grinning at me like that!”

“I can grin at you anyway I like...love –“ Brian’s grin widened as he saw a blush gracing the younger man’s cheeks. “Let me get this straight, then.”

Roger seemed to be finding the carpet pattern even more interesting as his hair flopped forward in an effort to hide his burning cheeks.

“You woke me up, by spitting paper into my face, to tell me you had a plan to wake John up by spitting paper into his face to avenge his throwing peanuts at me?” Having Roger on the back foot was entirely amusing; Brian no longer harboured secret or not-so-secret desires to sleep on this particular bus-ride.

“Well, the plan was more detailed when I was making the spitballs, you see – you could be over there, hiding behind that.” Roger pointed to a screen that partially extended to partition the bus, “and I could climb up there,” he pointed to one of the luggage crates above their heads, “and we could have our first wave of attack, and then – Bri, why are you laughing at me?” Roger looked genuinely upset.

“I’m not laughing at you,” Brian said, his chest almost shaking with his effort to hide his laughter. Having partially composed himself, he looked up at Roger, “Roger, really why did you want to fire spitballs at John?” A thought crossed his mind, back from primary school, when the boys would tease the girls they fancied in much the same way, “Rog?”

Roger looked stuck like a rabbit in headlights when his eyes met Brian’s, “Do you fancy John?”

“NO!” Roger almost shouted, as Brian quickly tried to quieten him, “I mean, no. John’s a lovely guy, and good-looking I suppose, but no, definitely not.”

“Methinks, the Lady doth protest –“

“No, Brian.”

“Oh, ok.”

Roger’s head disappeared again.

“Look, Rog. You really don’t need to be playing hide-and-seek with me. I know you’re sitting in that seat – you’ve been there for most of the tour.”

Moments later, Roger’s slowly poked his head around the side of the chair in the aisle. “Yes, Rog – you can come out.”

Roger shuffled forward on his knees towards Brian, still laid across the back row of seats. Brian looked down at him. “Roger, why did you want to spit paper into John’s hair?”

“Well, I...I just.” Roger looked up at Brian, “You never want to play with me anymore.” His piece spoken, Roger’s eyes darted back to their ardent carpet-inspection.

Brian was a little taken aback, but as he looked down at Roger, he realised he had been spending less and less time fooling around with their drummer than he used to. 

“Rog,” he said softly, reaching his hand out to tilt the drummers chin so their eyes could meet. Reluctantly, Roger’s eyes met his. “Point taken,” Brian reached his arms out further to pull the drummer on top of him. Roger wriggled in his grasp, trying to wrangle free of the deceptively strong grip of the clearly now-insane guitarist. “Let me go, Bri. Let me out.”

Brian grinned against the top of the drummer’s head, “You don’t want to play, then?”

Roger stilled. “This isn’t playing. This is you being a big strong hairy meanie. Lemme go.”

Brian squeezed around Roger’s middle suddenly, slightly winding the drummer. “No, it’s not playing. Because it’s the end of the tour, I’ve had nine and a half hours sleep this week, and I am going to get another three in before we get to the next city. And I’m not letting you go either.”

Resigned to his fate of having to spend the next four hours remaining still, but at least snuggled up in the arms of his best friend, Roger closed his eyes. 

“When we finish the tour we can go on holiday anywhere you like...love.” Brian smirked expecting another outburst of denial from the drummer, but all he got was a contented sigh and unintelligible murmur, as Roger wormed his arms further around the guitarist, snuggling into his chest.


End file.
